


Dolce

by SadakoTetsuwan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Blow Jobs, Fine Dining, Food, Frottage, M/M, McHanzo Reverse Bang 2018, Overwatch Retribution, Public Sex, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Rich Bitch Hanzo, Scion Hanzo Shimada, Semi-Public Sex, Yakuza Hanzo Shimada, squashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 05:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15856923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadakoTetsuwan/pseuds/SadakoTetsuwan
Summary: Hanzo Shimada has been thoroughly enjoying his supper, but something is missing from the evening. He finds what he is looking for yelling at a fellow patron a few tables over.





	Dolce

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to StrawberryFox for drawing the picture that set this whole thing in motion--the world could always use more Scion Hanzo sexcapades!

It would have been supremely undignified for Hanzo to lick the remaining creamy broth from his plate of risotto, but the dish had been absolutely exquisite. The tiny pieces of truffle hidden between the rice grains had been so indulgent, the broth sinfully rich… He would be ordering it again in the future, for certain.

“The _branzino_ , signore,” the waiter murmured, laying a long rectangular plate in front of him with a strip of braised fish laid across a bed of mashed purple potatoes and pearl onions lovingly arranged on the plate, surrounding the colorful main course.

“Thank you,” Hanzo murmured, waiting as the sommelier set a new glass down and presenting the next course’s wine. The offerings on the wine side left something to be desired—not that they weren’t expertly selected or _acceptable_ , but something about these Italian wines didn’t quite appeal to his tastes. Perhaps this bottle would have that special something, that spark…

Hanzo sighed softly as he inspected the wine, still finding something _missing—_ but it was nothing he could put his finger on, no defect in the bottle. He accepted the glass, sipping it as his gaze drifted across his fellow diners.

Another waiter on the terrace below wove between the small tables with surprising skill given his muscular bulk, delivering a cart bearing what looked to be a large fish-shaped pile of salt. With a flourish, the waiter began tapping the crust, clearing away the baked salt and revealing a sea bass beneath, steam rising from the shimmering scales. The scent—lemon zest, dill, thyme—was light and fragrant, wafting to his rooftop table and lifting a burden from Hanzo’s shoulders that he didn’t even notice he was carrying. His mouth watered as the waiter drew a long knife and began to slice the fish, but Hanzo’s captivation was quickly tempered as he continued to watch the waiter handle the knife.

That was no waiter. His technique was excellent, but it was that of a survivalist, of one who was used to the blade going into still living flesh. He made quick work of the bass, laying the filet beside an artfully arranged deconstructed salad of seasonal vegetables, and laid the plate in front of a woman who looked as if she had just been served worms.

She spoke, and the waiter’s posture stiffened—Hanzo’s as well; seeing an assassin react in such a way for reasons unknown would put any man on edge. The waiter’s response only intensified the woman’s expression; she fired off another quip, while her dining partner grew more and more uncomfortable. Hanzo frowned, activating the translator app on his phone and directing the microphone in the other table’s direction as subtly as he could.

The waiter’s fist rose and stabbed the knife into the tabletop, earning a cry from the man at the table.

“I swear on all that’s good and holy, you old bag—” Hanzo had apparently picked a good place to drop in.

“Why, you boorish oaf! Do they have manners in whatever shanty you came from—”

“I’ve had it up to _here_ with you bourgeoisie harpies—”

“—back into the gutter—”

“—shove your entitlement—”

“—speak to your manager—”

“My manager? Here’s my manager right here,” the waiter snapped, thrusting his fist upward and earning scandalized gasps from around the restaurant.

Better dinner theater could not be had. Hanzo hid his smirk behind his wine glass as the man stormed off, dropping his apron on top of a dish halfway to its table and pushing a plate of dessert into the chest of the Omnic maitre d, whose surprise surpassed all other encoded emotions. Hanzo pulled out his wallet and dropped a few hundred Euros on his plate before downing the rest of his glass and descending from the terrace seating.

He had a feeling he had just found what he was looking for.

Hanzo had followed the man across a canal before he even attempted to put together an approach. This man was a killer, like him, and was probably upset at having lost his mark. Perhaps that would be his ticket to… _getting to know_ this man. That, and what he could overhear. He was American, based on the loud English grumbling he was now making, though he couldn’t quite place his accent at the moment. Once he got closer, perhaps…

As they emerged into a nearby plaza, the American whipped around.

“You want some, too?” he snapped, his dark eyes smoldering and his fists clenched. Hanzo wasn’t surprised he was noticed—he was surprised there wasn’t a knife thrown his way.

“Perhaps,” he replied after a moment, smirking as he strode closer, putting a bit of sway into his steps. He didn’t know how much of a show he might have to make to tempt the assassin in front of him, but he might as well start hinting now.

“Uh, beg your pardon?” the man asked, caught slightly off-guard by his approach. Hanzo slowed, not wanting to startle the man. Something about him reminded him of a wild horse—powerful, but easily spooked. That accent certainly spurred his imagination, as well.

“That was quite the performance at the restaurant,” Hanzo said, appraising him from a distance before taking another few confident steps closer, testing the waters. “And I don’t only mean your linguistic offerings. Your knifework was exquisite. I am sure you are a real asset to your employer.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure he didn’t want the door to hit my ‘asset’ on the way out,” the man scoffed. Oh, delightful.

“Not _that_ employer,” Hanzo chuckled, “Whoever you are _really_ working for. Do not worry,” he added, raising a gloved finger to his lips. “Your secret is safe with me. Assuming I am not your target, of course.”

The man scratched at his head in mock confusion—he really was quite good.

“Uh, mister, I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure where you’re gettin’ to, talking about targets and whatnot…”

“Of course,” Hanzo purred, “Wouldn’t want your mouth to go getting you in trouble again, would we?” he smirked, taking a bold step forward and carefully twining his fingers around the man’s necktie. “No…I think we could put a mouth like that to much better use. Speaking, of course, professional to professional,” he added, winking.

“Now I ain’t _that_ kind of professional,” the man said, his tone growing more serious.

“Neither am I,” Hanzo smirked, calmly and obviously revealing a few throwing knives before casually tucking them back into place. “I think men in our line of work recognize one another quite clearly. But I am also not, how do you say… ‘on the clock’,” he continued, letting a gloved finger run down the stranger’s chest—so broad and firm. “And I daresay, neither are you for any job,” he added with a chuckle.

“Well, pardner, you got me there,” the American replied, trying to keep his tone casual. “So what are you, a man off the clock, suggesting I, another man off the clock, do with you?”

“I was hoping I might get a sample of that mouth of yours,” Hanzo purred, finally closing the last bit of distance and pressing against the ‘waiter’. “I can only imagine all the things it can do.”

“Y’ain’t careful, you might not like where it ends up,” the man warned. With that, he began to move again, heading for an alleyway opening onto a canal. Hanzo recognized the threat—knew this man could make it look like an accident. He appreciated that in a partner, even if they would only be partners for a quick rendezvous.

“Then I will be cautious…although I enjoy a little danger,” Hanzo smirked.

“Now don’t go telling me something like that,” the man purred, his tone growing more sultry as they entered the shadows. “After all, you made me while I was undercover—you know what sort of danger I can bring.”

“Good,” Hanzo smirked, grasping the man’s tie again and leaning back against the colorful stucco wall behind him. “Shall we get dangerous…ah?”

“Morricone,” the man said, “Name’s Joel Morricone.” Hanzo scoffed.

“That is an alias if I have ever heard one. But if you want me to scream that name, then so be it,” Hanzo said, unbuckling his belt languidly. ‘Joel’ chuckled in the dark, his hands deftly snaking past Hanzo’s and unzipping his pants.

“It’ll be Joel’s greatest achievement—though I’ll count it as an honorable mention notch in my belt,” he replied, his voice smooth as smoke and dripping with intent. If Hanzo didn’t know better, he’d think that perhaps this ‘Joel’ was a honeypot trying to snare him. As he watched the stranger sink to his knees, a breathy chuckle left Hanzo. The only person who would have possibly known his highly specific tastes was dead by his own hand…and there was no way Genji would have told any of the elders about Hanzo’s proclivities. In spite of what they had said, he had always been loyal.

“Aww, c’mon, don’t die on me,” ‘Joel’ crooned, his rough hands pulling at his softening cock.

“It is a little cool out tonight,” Hanzo recovered, watching as those thin lips parted. A wave of warm breath washed over his skin before Joel’s tongue slid forward. Wet heat cradled the underside of his cock as Joel gently began teasing him back to half mast. Joel’s lips closed around Hanzo’s head and a pleased sigh left him. He focused on those high cheekbones, the chestnut hair that had been slicked back into some approximation of a professional style, the rugged cut of his sideburns… He had caught sight of a tattoo on his muscular inner arm (perhaps the woman at the restaurant had noticed, too?), and found himself wondering how many other tattoos might be on that body.

‘Pity, I’ll probably never know,’ he thought, sinking against the wall as Joel’s lips and tongue worked diligently over his length, wet and hungry. Damn, whoever had trained him for this aspect had done an excellent job—’Joel’ obviously took pride in his honeypot work, humming softly as he took Hanzo’s cock deep in his throat. His rough fingers slipped farther into Hanzo’s pants, cradling his balls like fragile spun glass. Hanzo jumped slightly as he felt Joel reach farther, rubbing a finger across his hole teasingly.

“It appears as if I am not the only one who enjoys a little danger,” Hanzo smirked, tipping his head back and letting out a lewd moan. “Do you think you are prepared?”

“To handle you?” Joel purred, reaching down to rub at the front of his dress pants for a moment before he unzipped his own fly and pulled out his cock, the head flushed dark, the shaft veiny and thick, a delightful thatch of wiry dark hair ringing its base. “Think I ought to be asking you that, darlin’,” he purred, stroking himself languidly.

Oh my.

Hanzo licked his lips, a shiver of anticipation running through him. “Unfortunately,” he said, his voice huskier than he had expected, “I have no lube. I was not expecting to find such a fine specimen while dining out.”

“Your loss,” Joel shrugged, moving to attempt to tuck himself back into his pants—once that  cock had been released, it was reluctant to return.

“I intend to lose nothing tonight,” Hanzo growled, capturing Joel by the tie again and tugging him back to his feet. “And I dare say, it would be your loss as well,” he smirked, pushing Joel against the opposite wall and slotting his hips against the larger man. “Is this an acceptable compromise?”

“Oh Jesus,” Joel sighed, his hand falling reflexively to Hanzo’s trim waist, “Shit, this is more than acceptable…”

“Good,” Hanzo purred, rocking his hips against Joel’s for a moment and sighing. “It is a good thing you don’t have to go back to work after this,” he smirked, “I plan on thoroughly soiling your shirt.”

“Right back at you,” Joel chuckled, his wide rough hand grasping both of their cocks, “Gonna ruin that fancy silk vest of yours.”

“Ordinarily, I would kill a man for such an action,” Hanzo said, wrapping Joel’s tie tightly around his hand and giving it a light testing tug, “But under the circumstances, I would love to make an exception. Now,” he whispered, his gaze narrowing dangerously, “ _Ruin my clothes, Joel Morricone._ ”

“As you wish, _sir_ ,” Joel purred in reply, pushing Hanzo back against the opposite wall again and grinding against him, pressing his full, muscular body against Hanzo.

He gasped with surprised need, his head spinning as he felt weight pressing against him. The pressure against his lungs, the solid wall of muscle grinding him into the brick wall behind—

A shiver of arousal coursed through his body as he was crushed, and he arched into Joel’s hand with a gasp. He grasped the back of Joel’s shirt, reveling in the heavy press of his body just as much as the stroking and rubbing of his dick. He brutally thrust his hips into Joel’s callused fist, fucking against the other man’s thick cock with vigor.

Joel’s breath was deep and slow as he rutted back against him, the squeeze of his hand around their dicks firm and steady.

“You like to run the show, dontcha?” Joel whispered, his voice husky with arousal and his accent syrupy thick, dripping into Hanzo’s ear like honey.

“Fuck,” Hanzo huffed, his head pressed firmly back into the brickwork, his eyes squeezed shut as he sank into that warm press to his front. The pressure made him tingle down to the tips of his toes, and he grasped a fistful of Joel’s hair to keep himself grounded. “You like talking,” he wheezed, looping one leg around Joel’s knee and thrusting at a sharper angle.

“You want me to shut up?” he asked, chuckling.

“No,” Hanzo breathed, sucking in as much of a breath as he could.

“Oh, sorry—you want me to let you breathe?” Joel continued, leaning away and releasing the pressure, letting cold night air bite at his body.

“No!” Hanzo gasped, tugging Joel close again, pulling him off-balance. The taller man crashed into his chest and he let out a huff of breath, his dick twitching in Joel’s hand. “I’m fine, I can breathe. Now. Fuck me into the wall, Joel,” Hanzo breathed, his grip falling to the man’s shoulder. The way the name ‘Joel’ felt on his tongue confirmed more than anything to Hanzo that this was a fake name…he wanted to taste this man’s true name before the night was through.

“Alright, promise me you’ll tap out if you need to breathe, alright?” Joel asked, giving their cocks a few light strokes before he began rocking and thrusting his hips against Hanzo’s again. Hanzo chuckled as each breath was fucked out of him, his imagination running wild with how that cock would feel actually pounding away inside of him, their bodies folded together as tightly as they could be, pressing him relentlessly into the bed…

Warm and soft against the rough hands and powerful thrusts of their hips, their bodies crashing together only to fall back against feather-soft cushions—

Hanzo scoffed at his own fantasy, trying to focus more on the heat and friction of Joel against him, his hot breath in his ear, grunts of effort feeding into his senses and shooting straight to his cock. Right now, the contrast of hot and cold was more than enough—the heat of Joel and the chill of the air, the warm softness of flesh and the cold hard brick behind him…

“I’m close,” Hanzo huffed, his leg tightening around Joel’s thigh as he bucked harder, grunting along with the stranger as he chased his completion. He’d promised to ruin Joel’s shirt, after all. He groaned as he imagined this assassin having to walk back to his safehouse with a cum-stained shirt, with Hanzo’s scent and seed claiming that taut stomach and broad chest. An impish urge to brand Joel a little more permanently welled in his belly.

‘So you can identify him next time,’ he thought with a heady rush. His body spasmed and he arched with a cry at the thought of _next time_ , the dragons tingling beneath his skin with arousal as he met his end, hot seed spurting and dribbling from his dick as he pressed against Joel with burning need.

“Joel,” Hanzo breathed, shuddering and clinging hard to the stranger, grinding his cock into the other man’s stomach.

“Ah, fuck baby,” Joel whispered, his breath ragged. “…It’s Jesse,” he breathed.

“Hm?”

“My real name,” he groaned, his hand flying along his own dick, slicked with Hanzo’s cum. “My real name’s Jesse.”

“Do you want me to say it?” Hanzo smirked, pushing Jesse back slightly so he would have better aim. He, too, had been promised a ruined suit of clothes, and he fully intended to get them.

“Yes, God, _please!_ ” Jesse gasped, his fist pressing into the brick to keep himself balanced.

“You want me to say your name as you come, _Jesse_?” Hanzo purred, relaxing against the brick and watching, _waiting_ for his finish. “You want to paint my chest with your load while I moan your real name, _Jesse_?” he sighed, licking his lips. Oh yes, that name tasted so much better on his tongue…he could only imagine how good the rest of him would taste.

“Ah, shit, I’m coming—!” Jesse gasped, his hand not slowing as he finished, apparently for the first time in decades. Rope after rope of thick hot cream splattered across Hanzo’s pinstripe vest, a shattered moan leaving Jesse as he watched himself. Groaning, he slumped against Hanzo again for a moment before he properly got his trembling knees to cooperate.

“Impressive,” Hanzo sighed, running a gloved finger through the cum on his chest and bringing it to his lips. He licked at the leather, sighing contentedly at the salty taste of the stranger— _Jesse_. Surely, a better dessert than any the restaurant could have offered. “You have some skill—I will be sure to remember this, should I ever require another man in my operation,” he added, smirking as he pushed away from the wall, casually tucking his own dick back in his pants. “May our next meeting be as…vigorous as this one, Jesse,” he called, proudly striding out into the night with his rumpled suit and tousled hair.


End file.
